Blessed Are the Merciful
by KitCat Italica
Summary: For they shall obtain mercy. Set during TDKR


Blessed Are the Merciful

_A/N: I just saw the TDKR preview two days ago when I went to see Sherlock 2, and while it feels quite strange to be writing a story about a movie not yet released, I felt I had to do this. Justice must be served to all who still follow this pairing, even after the canonical timeline moves on to a "more brutal" villain. Let it be said that no matter how tough Bane gets in the final film, and no matter how alluring and frustrating Selina Kyle may be, I will always see the Joker as Batman's most implacable foe, and the greatest challenge he ever needed._

_This can be loosely connected to my oneshots "Four Shots" and "You're With Me Now" because it can also fit into canon as a missing scene. Who knows if this will actually fit into the movie when it comes out, but I hope I made other goings-on vague enough for that possibility._

_As a final note, I'm officially on winter break of my senior year, and three days ago I was accepted into my first-choice university with a considerable monetary offer. Therefore, I am celebrating this happier time in my life by filling it with more writing. I hope to see you around my other updates to come. Thank you all, as always, for the wonderful support. You make writing that much more worth it. :)_

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><p>Success in any endeavor required patience.<p>

Though he lived for the flashier times in his chosen lifestyle, a great deal of it was spent in waiting. Waiting for the mayor to get on with his speech nobody cared about. Waiting for the convoy to set out and drive right into his crossfire. Waiting for the Bat to make his next move.

It was better he didn't have his pocket watch in here. He had no time schedule of his own to keep, and the freedom from that continuum made waiting more manageable. It kept the self-knowledge of his boredom at bay.

He used to keep track of the days he'd spent in this incarceration. The last timeframe he remembered calculating was two hundred and twenty-six days. Roughly seven, almost eight months. But it became such a pointless practice he soon disregarded the existence of time. At any rate, the drugs kept his mental functions in such a fog that it expended too much energy to keep up with extraneous information.

He was in here for life, after all. How much time he bided in here didn't matter to anyone else. He was locked up for good, out of sight and out of mind for the rest of the world. A neutralized threat.

Just what he wanted them to think.

It took patience. Waiting took care of sneaking his way under their noses. Spontaneity took care of the rest.

Maybe it had been years. Maybe decades. So long since they'd cut him down from the Prewitt Building. Since they'd shipped him off to Arkham, the safest place they could think of while he waited for a trial that never got off the ground – it was easier on his appointed lawyer to issue the insanity plea for him, to settle the matter conveniently for everyone involved.

They'd stripped him of his suit, his paint, even his hair. They kept him bald in the same way they kept him in the red jumpsuit, and the same way they made him a number instead of his chosen name. It was a weak attempt to dehumanize him, although no one was really convinced there was any humanity left in him to crush.

He could have put on an act for them, of breaking down to spill one sob story after the next of his abusive childhood and underprivileged upbringing that drove him to a life of mass murder. But it wasn't worth the laugh. They weren't worth his existence. So he kept quiet, and waited.

His experiences in therapy had been brief, concentrated at the beginning of his imprisonment. No one wanted to help him; they just wanted to figure out what was wrong with him. He'd had so many diagnoses – many of which contradicted each other – that they'd just treated him for all of them, and shoved pills down his throat like Halloween candy.

Gotham wasn't clean and shiny on the inside yet, not by a long shot. Batman and Gordon's work was still cut out for them. Malpractice lurked everywhere in the Asylum, and it all seemed to converge upon him. People held grudges against him. The doctors turned blind eyes when the guards or their own colleagues turned nasty on him. He took it all without a fight, and without a laugh.

Make them think he was broken. That he'd lost his fire. He needed to conserve his energy for stoking it. The drugs didn't make it easy, but he'd dealt with worse.

Escaping from Arkham Asylum required patience.

And, as it turned out, it also required patients.

While he had to do it infrequently enough to ensure it wouldn't be traced to him, he still enjoyed switching others' drugs when no one was looking. Today at lunch, he had swapped Victor Zsasz's lithium capsules with Thomas Schiff's SSRIs.

The results were hilarious.

Schiff, deprived of his antidepressants, began a slow shift from a tranquilized state to drooping over his lunch tray, as if he might fall apart and cry. No one noticed, however, in light of what Zsasz did. Mania got the best of his aggression, and he ended up sending two guards and a nurse to the hospital before they finally managed to get a taser on him. The ruckus sent all the other patients into disarray, and it took a good half hour to finally get everyone sedated again.

More than enough time for him to drag another guard into the deserted kitchen. He made short work of strangling him, but watching the man's eyes widen in terror before they went dim produced only a muted high. He blamed the drugs lingering in his system.

Quickly he stripped the body and swapped their clothes. In the pandemonium of the cafeteria, no one noticed what looked like a guard dragging what looked like a neutralized patient down the hall. He slumped the corpse onto the cot in his cell, taking care to hide the face under an arm. They couldn't see the head of hair from the door, so it looked like the man was sleeping. Perfect.

With that, nothing remained but to walk with purpose toward an exit. Amazing how easily people could be convinced of an act if one simply walked the part. Jogging loosely but with an air of a hurry (which he was technically in), as if on a mission to fetch more reinforcements, he fit right in with the scene. If anyone paid him any mind, they would never suspect a deranged terrorist had just escaped from prison.

They would find out, eventually. The missing guard would be accounted for. The dead body wouldn't pass as a living mental patient for more than a few hours.

But he would be smoke in the air by then.

xxx

He stole an employee's car from the lot. It had been so long since he'd done anything besides eat, sleep, sit, and pop back pills that it took him a few minutes longer than usual to hotwire the 2005 Honda Civic. It would come back to him. It all would.

Once on the road, he kept a nonchalant speed so as not to attract attention. He wanted to floor the pedal, hear the motor roar and guzzle as much gasoline as he could while the wind bit into his scalp and hard metal blared on the radio so he could feel _alive_ again. But as always, patience was the key. This wasn't victory yet; it was reestablishment.

He changed cars four times, picking parking garages in which he wouldn't be easily spotted. He switched out license plates each time, and considered switching all of them in the whole damn garage just for the laughs, but it would leave a trail. He had no time for pursuit just yet.

As luck would have it, he happened across a stray newspaper at the second switch-a-roo, lying in the garage near the wall. His fingers became more automatic with the hotwiring as the afternoon progressed, so while he fiddled with the wires, he read.

Who knew if the paper was current, but the printed date read July 20, 2014. So it _had_ been years. Eight, to be exact. Far, far too long to be away from Gotham and Batman. It hadn't been quite a part of his plan, but he would have to adjust. He had still caused plenty of damage during his reign.

Rifling through the paper, however, it became clear that something had gone amiss that he hadn't anticipated.

His damage had been forgotten.

There were no references to the September of 2006, the most glorious days of his life. His name was never printed in any article, any obituary or even an advertisement – it was nowhere to be found.

And neither was Batman.

That was what disconcerted him even more. He dropped his work altogether to pore over every inch of the black-and-white print, searching for that six-letter name that comprised his life's purpose. But there were no "caped crusader"s, no "dark knight"s, not even any "public menace"s to be seen. Back in the day, there had always been _some_ mention of Batman in the paper, but –

It was puzzling.

His fingers drummed absently on the steering wheel as he drove around the rest of the day. Thoughts were circling on another subject, of something he had read in an article about some city council gala or other. It had read "_in Gotham's new era of peace_".

It had nearly brought the first laugh out of him in eight years.

His eyes had been scanning the streets meticulously after reading that bit of lunacy. But so far, the citizens mirrored the sentiments. People were walking home from work upright and with their heads held high, instead of the hunched-over demeanors and fearful expressions he remembered from before. No one shot furtive looks over their shoulders, or bothered to mind their surroundings at all. They felt safe.

But as always, he knew better.

He could read Gotham City like a cheap romance novel. She betrayed her secrets to him as she did to no one else, except for perhaps a certain man in armor. He read her tea leaves in the stagnant rain puddles, flipped over her tarot cards in the shop windows and traffic jams. Reading the signs was how he survived. He could read Gotham's thoughts before she knew them herself.

And though the people's behavior pointed to the contrary, the city whispered of a rising darkness.

Peacetime, indeed. There was a war on its way. There was a storm coming.

And something else, a discreet angle of his mind, told him he wouldn't be the maelstrom he'd once embodied. He'd be battening down his own hatches, too.

xxx

By the end of the day, he knew they would take note of his absence. Maybe they wouldn't raise too much of an alarm, so as not to disrupt their little New Era of Bullshit. But when it counted, he always took the greatest pains to ensure secrecy. Even his usual haunts were out of the question.

He took up residence in a ramshackle apartment on the edge of town. The previous tenant, he decided, was long overdue for a new makeover in crimson, and could use with a bath in the river once the deed was done. He made sure to take the young man's clothes before throwing him in to the bottom feeders. It would be useful to have less conspicuous clothing for a while.

He didn't bother getting "settled in," or whatever name the familiarization process went by these days. This was a temporary arrangement, as were all his shelters. It wasn't a safety precaution as much as that he would get bored living in one place for too long. Being constantly on the move was more interesting.

In the days that followed, he lived off the refrigerator's measly contents when he had the chance, and when that ran out, Ramen noodles and animal crackers from the corner store a block away. He collected as many newspapers as he could. As the drugs wore their way out of his system, he started a few aerobic workouts on the kitchen linoleum, to get his body back up to par and his mind out of its buzzing _boredom_.

He knew his body craved something else, something far more elemental, but that would have to wait. The instinct to act upon it would let him know when the time was right. When he needed to make a move, he would feel it.

On the third week of his stay, he killed the landlord inquiring about rent. This time, his lack of thrills from the murder couldn't be explained away with drugs. Something was off. He just wished he knew what.

With the body lying on the floor, he knew what he had to do. He'd been devouring every scrap of news he could find about the subject, online or in gossip rags. Television helped, too. The manhunt had plastered the news years ago, but soon even that had faded. And there was no way for him to conclusively explain why Batman had ceased to exist, while the façade wore on.

He fished into the dead landlord's pocket for his phone. He had also kept the guard's and the tenant's for useful occasions such as this. After some rewiring to knock out the GPS, he switched out the SIM card and deleted all memory for good measure. He only needed to send one text, to that number he'd memorized long ago, before the start of it all.

The wording came to him without a second thought. Something from a conversation only the two of them had shared. He would understand it. He had to. Whether he would act on it was up to him.

_We're still destined to do this forever.  
>2230 Regent's Drive. Apartment 7-D.<br>If you ever need it._

He hit send.

_Your move, Mr. Wayne._

xxx

In the next month, the storm gathered.

He could feel the static charging in the air, and he assumed no one else could except for Batman. Still, Batman never made an appearance. Not in the apartment, not anywhere.

Gotham was silently breaking in her knight's absence, whether she knew it or not.

He kept his eyes and ears open. People still milled about their lives, but some primal awareness was surfacing in their subconscious. It still made him roll his eyes at how they ignored their gut feelings, and pretended nothing was wrong. They should be rioting in the streets, making things fall apart like they were bound to anyway.

But only the likes of him had the wisdom to do so without example.

The months passed. He went out and about, finding his old stashes of explosive materials, and stealing what more of it he could find. The fertilizer was easy to get his hands on, and diesel fuel wasn't hard to come by, either. If you knew what you were doing, intercepting shipments was child's play. And he certainly knew what he was doing.

He kept the meager stashes he had in the apartment, building bombs only to dismantle them and start all over again. Just for something to do.

He was assembling another such contraption while sitting cross-legged on the bed, newspapers spread out and overlapping all around the mattress, when he heard it.

A knock at the door.

His eyes flashed up. His body locked into full tension. An unmistakable current had surged through him with the sound.

It had to be him.

But he also couldn't understand this new development. He was _knocking_ at the goddamn door. He had been looking forward to something a little more like _Batman_. Every day he was half-expecting armored hands to seize his throat from behind, a black-knuckled fist to smash into his jaw before he even knew he was being watched.

Not for his old foe to come calling on him like some sort of gentleman, politely waiting to be let inside.

All the same, this was his chance. He would oblige Batman and play along. "Come in," he croaked, but the words didn't come out right. He realized they were the first words he had spoken in eight years.

He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Come in." This time it was more his usual purr.

Nothing happened. He sat still, all senses frozen on the door, forever. It passed by his fancy that the shrinks could have been right about him and schizophrenia, and it was now developing an edge of catatonia. The left side of his mouth crooked up slightly.

The facial quirk melted away. Nothing happened. If Batman was still there, he could almost hear the conflict in his mind. Debating whether or not to trust the text message, let alone the one who could have sent it.

_C'mon, Bat. Don't let me down._

The door opened. Slowly, and with caution, but it opened. Once again, he was waiting.

Something cold pierced him when he saw just what he had been waiting for.

Batman had chosen to come without his armor and cape, without his ridiculous mask. Instead, he wore a black T-shirt (still with the _black_…) and gray slacks. Nondescript. Well-made, but not in the same class as his Armani suits or Kevlar tri-weave. Casual. That said a great deal.

It was the cane that shocked him the most.

Batman limped over the threshold. His eyes were on the floor, not on the room's occupant. His progress was too slow for someone with as practiced a limp as his. It could be the carefulness of new surroundings, but he wasn't even bothering to take in the place. Yet another troubling oddity.

He wanted to see the man's eyes. When he made eye contact, he'd see what was truly behind them and would work out this whole riddle. But Batman was hiding.

When Batman closed the door behind him with his cane-free hand, he seemed to be taking extra time to do it. Milking the excuse to hide his eyes from the escaped convict. But said escaped convict had too much experience with waiting on him.

Success in any endeavor required patience, but especially with the Batman.

Batman turned and limped further into the room. Whatever was wounded, it still hurt, from his tightly-pressed lips and concentration on his step. He was showing weakness, whether he intended to or not. But he was definitely aware of it. Hence the hiding.

He walked slow, barely steady. His recipient could feel a sharp pang in his chest with each shaky step. How long had this injury been present? If it was from him, he would be proud, but he had a feeling it wasn't. Which just made him angry.

Batman stopped at the foot of the bed, attempting to stand with his weight on his left leg. It was an awkward position. The cane was very much needed.

The guest was trailing his pained gaze halfheartedly around the newspaper clippings strewn about the mattress. Reading his name, over and over. All the while he could feel manic eyes pressing into his bowed forehead. He didn't look up. He was too ashamed, or afraid, or _something_, but he was too good at hiding for his host to tell right away which it was.

The criminal sitting on the bed finally moved. He swept a few of the papers to the side, cleared off a spot on the bedspread. He patted it thrice with his hand.

Batman didn't move for a while, too wary at the invitation. But he relented soon enough. His leg probably wouldn't take no for an answer. He limped to the side of the bed, and eased himself down onto the cleared space. It was a slow process; his leg didn't make the task easy.

When he was settled, no one spoke. Batman waited on a cue, but received nothing but a stone gargoyle. Still he looked down, hiding his face.

"What do you want?" he asked dully, barely a whisper into the stillness.

The convict didn't reply. He was too frozen, staring speechless at the war-torn Batman sitting before him. The plainclothes, hunched, cringing cripple before his eyes couldn't be the same warrior who'd thrown him off a building eight years ago, only to save his life and defend the honor of his people.

He was almost afraid to see the man's face.

Still, he took the apprehension as a challenge to himself, and unfurled from his cross-legged position, setting the half-made bomb on the floor. He leaned forward, gingerly took Batman's face in his hands, and turned him to face him.

He immediately understood why Batman had wanted to hide his face from him.

There were dark circles under his eyes that weren't from kohl. Creases were marking his forehead, his eye corners, where his cheeks connected nose and mouth. They weren't glaring, but they had no place on a thirty-eight-year-old man of his wealth and connections. His mouth looked like it hadn't shown a grin in years, even in private.

The eyes, once he got a proper look at them, made the pang in his chest stab him again. They told a story too grievous for words. He looked too pale, too tired.

_So_ tired.

Batman was looking at him, and for a moment he looked so fragile. Like he was one little push away from breaking. Maybe he always had been, but now it was too obvious. The armor was gone.

The hands pulled the face closer and downward, in a gesture of simple suggestion. An offer. Batman tried to resist, maybe out of old habit, but more likely because he didn't want to admit his weakness. To accept this would be to succumb.

But succumb he did, before he could stop himself. His resistance was worn thin by too many battles fought with the world, and with himself; it shattered like church windows.

Bruce allowed himself to be dragged downward, guided to the Joker's chest. Joker leaned back on the headboard. He now had an armful of Batman on top of him, with brown hair beneath his chin. He said nothing. Bruce closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He'd lost the privilege of choosing his sanctuary a long time ago.

xxx

It became a ritual. Not a predictable one, but the Joker didn't mind that. He didn't decide anymore when Batman hit his breaking points. All he could do now was throw out a net and hope he caught all the pieces. Knowing they'd never fit together the same way.

He stayed more and more confined to the apartment. He didn't want to wonder what would happen if Bruce showed up while he was out. The thought and the possibilities physically pained him.

For the most part, he read. He read all sorts of things, in a variety of languages he hadn't been aware he knew. His newfound talents amused him, but rarely had they surprised him. Personal discoveries made life sparkle.

But when that knock at the door came, whenever it came, he dropped everything and let Bruce Wayne into his stolen shelter.

The second time Bruce came calling, Joker knew instinctively what he was seeking. They never said a word that time; none were needed. Every time after that, their routine became established.

Whenever those mornings, or afternoons, or even late nights occurred, Joker would sit on his bed, reclined against the headboard. Bruce would ease onto the bed with as little pain as his injury would allow. He would lie down onto Joker's chest. The Joker would hold him in his arms.

And they stayed that way for the remainder of the visit, until Bruce found the strength and constitution to leave the embrace, and hobble out the door again.

Bruce was silent the entire time he stayed. He craved the silence of his own mind too much. But the Joker would quietly murmur things, anything that was on his mind at the time. He would ramble on and on about his day, what he had been up to since Bruce's last visit. He mentioned what he ate, who he might kill next, how many roaches he'd seen in the bathtub last night, what he predicted Humbert Humbert would do to Lolita in the next chapter.

Soon, though, he too would fall into the silence. It was always during the stretching silence that Bruce would leave. It allowed him to remember the life outside the Joker's arms, outside this meaningless microcosm of an apartment. Joker read about the brewing developments in the paper, but knew that only scratched the surface of what Bruce was dealing with this time. Bruce never once told him anything.

Joker could only guess at the nature of this storm.

xxx

Sometimes, the Joker would wonder why Bruce didn't do anything else but lay there with his eyes closed. He didn't question why it was _him_ whom Batman had chosen to seek refuge with of all people; he had never questioned it in eight years. But still he wondered.

This stillness in Batman's demeanor was all he saw of him now. He never saw him in action of any sort, beyond the arduous labor of walking. It began to disconcert him, how placid they both were becoming in what were now their normal interactions.

He wanted the fight in Batman again. He wanted some sign of life. He wanted him to punch his lights out, to damn everything to hell and kick a hole through the wall with his lame leg. He'd even settle for him crying during a visit, violent in his sobs.

At least it would be something.

But Bruce never cried. He never hurt the Joker. He never yelled at him for spinning his life out of control eight years ago, weakening him to the point that he couldn't hold his head above the current anymore without some goddamn cuddling sessions as a parody of much-needed therapy.

The only break in routine Bruce ever exhibited was one night, when he stayed longer than usual. Most visits lasted an hour at most. At least three had passed when the Joker realized Bruce had fallen asleep in his arms.

He tilted his head down to get a better look at Bruce's sleeping face. It wasn't any more peaceful, as he had expected. In sleep, Bruce gave in to his subconscious. There were no defense mechanisms to shield him from his mind anymore.

The delta waves Joker thought would give Bruce some reprieve, but his sleep cycle had become so stunted over the years that it lasted no longer than a minute, if that. His breathing sped up again far too quickly. He was back to REM sleep. The worst when it came to dreams.

His eyes darted everywhere under his lids, while his breath passed quietly but too quickly, too shallow. He didn't moan, or cry, or whimper, but that would have set Joker more at ease than this. This constant state of verging on the deep end was always the most terrifying. And it was where Bruce lived each aspect of his life.

The Joker prided himself on being capable of waiting out anything. But this kind of waiting, of waiting for Bruce's night terror that never came, frazzled him. _Just let _go_ already_, he wanted to scream at him, but it would wake him up. And Bruce would have the nightmare fresh in his memory. So he didn't. He would wait out the sleep.

The dreams passed on. Out the window, he could see it was snowing. The first snow of the season. Winter had come early to Gotham. Perhaps this was the nature of the coming storm. The frozen, biting, relentless kind. A heartless blizzard.

Bruce muttered in his sleep, half-formed words he couldn't make out. Sometimes it was a name. Selina. Miranda. One of the two.

Joker held Bruce tighter in his arms.

xxx

The winter picked up outside the apartment. The Joker wanted out. He wanted out so badly. If he could just taste the air of Gotham's impending doom, race through her streets of decay with abandon, he would find out how to take the city back to her former glory of nearly being squished under his thumb.

It would make Batman angry, make him feel betrayed, that the man who'd held him in his arms for a month still sought to destroy everything he held dear. He'd put the cowl back on properly, vowing to take down this monster once and for all. And their battle would begin again.

Batman would make a full comeback. So would the Joker. And everything would be as he knew it should be.

Instead, he stayed in the apartment, and Bruce kept coming back to him. Sporadically, less often, but he always returned. Something else would have just happened, something the Joker could only guess at. Bruce never let on about it. Joker was curious, but gathered Bruce into his arms without a fuss.

Bruce was even more haggard of late, if that were possible. His eyes darkened further still, and his whole face looked sunken in. He was losing his vitality, his edge. His substance. He was a wraith where a man once stood.

He fell asleep more often during his visits, and Joker was beginning to wonder if his heartbeat was the only place Bruce physically _could_ sleep anymore. Not that the sleep did him much good, anyway. He would leave even more exhausted than when he arrived.

He was seeking sleep when he made his secret visits, and he undoubtedly needed it. But what he really wanted for was _rest_. He needed a reprieve, an escape where nothing was his fault anymore. Where he could leave his troubles and suffering at the door.

Yet somehow, they slithered under the door to fester in him anyway, hissing and spitting venom.

The Joker wished Bruce would tell him who was doing this to him. At least one person, so he could end their pathetic existence with as much panache and agony as his return deserved. No one had earned the right to break the Bat like this. Not in the Joker's book.

He needed a reaction from Batman. Something, anything would do. "I want to fuck you so badly."

Bruce didn't even stir at the brazen comment intoned into his hair. "I know," he murmured back into the Joker's shirt.

Neither one said anything further on the subject.

xxx

Joker was cleaning his newly-stolen handgun. It wasn't a very current model, but it would suffice. He'd get more firepower when the time called.

His batch of bombs was ready. Had been for a week now. Each morning he would wake up, whether Bruce was in his arms or not, and wonder if the day had finally come to use them. Each day, it never happened. The air was too close for it. The streets denied him access to their treasures, and he couldn't penetrate her defenses. The time was never right. Gotham's spirit was hunkering down for a long and horrible winter.

A knock came from the door.

He rose from the floor, sighing. Still twirling the handgun between his fingers, he opened the door. Bruce stood there, waiting. He looked a blink away from dropping dead.

Joker stood to the side to let him pass. He offered no assistance to Bruce's limp, just trailed his eyes after him. Bruce made it to the bed. Joker closed the door.

Bruce was pulling his crippled leg into a more manageable position, his cane lying at the foot of the bed. He winced at the movement. When he'd finished, he looked up at Joker, who was standing in front of him. He hadn't yet taken his place.

Joker leveled Bruce's expectant glance. "I won't be here next time you come."

Bruce's brow furrowed slightly. It was the most life Joker had breathed into his face in eight years. "Where, then?"

He didn't get it. The gun paused in its acrobatics about Joker's hand before he replied. "You'll have to figure that one out yourself. On your own time. No hints this go-around."

A prickling of fear spread across Bruce's face. Joker took it all in. An improvement was an improvement. "Why?" Bruce asked.

"_Because_," Joker drawled, advancing on the sitting billionaire, "you aren't doing anything to help yourself by _craw_ling up here for a free _snuggle_ fest every time you stub your toe." He lightly kicked Bruce's right shoe at the last word – on the injured leg.

Bruce flinched back at the pain. Joker spread his arms out in a gesture of _I told you so_. "See what I mean? You hide and hide and _hide_. That's all this gets y-"

"You think I haven't thought those words exactly, every time I come here?" Bruce ground out quietly through his teeth. His eyes were fixed on the Joker's middle shirt button, refusing to meet the other's gaze.

Joker raised his eyebrows. "Apparently, I _do_ think exactly that, seeing as you haven't done anything about it, and keep coming back instead of-"

"Instead of _what?_"

Joker felt chills racing down his forearms at the glare Bruce whipped out at him with those words.

"What would you rather have me do," Bruce snapped, "that I _haven't already tried?_ If you knew- if you-" He was stumbling. He took a breath, and then became defeated in tone again. "If you knew what I've been fighting- what I've been going through for eight years…you wouldn't be telling me to quit this."

"Yes, I would," Joker stated simply. This was the most he'd seen Bruce ignited in years. It wasn't the penultimate showdown he'd held onto in his imagination to tide him over in Arkham, but it was the most he'd gotten in nearly a decade. The deprivation was what _he_ had been going through. "I would, because unless it's finally puberty, whatever's out there that you've been 'going through', you wouldn't lie down and let it rip you apart like this until it kills you!"

"Well, if you're that bent on beating him to it, why don't _you_ kill me and save him the trouble?"

Joker lashed out with a blow to Bruce's temple before either one saw it coming.

Bruce hadn't parried it, nor been prepared to absorb the shock of impact. His head was ringing, as fuzzy as the Joker had warned him about eight years ago. He blinked hard in shock. He'd been knocked back to face the bedspread.

His hand shot up to his throbbing temple out of reflex to the pain, but it was wrested back down to the bed. He looked back up at Joker. He was met with the muzzle of the handgun jabbed into his face, Joker seething at him from behind it. The maniac looked absolutely _deranged_, with an undertone Bruce could nearly label as desperate.

"I am _not_ your own personal firing squad," Joker snarled lowly. He seemed to spit acid with each deliberate syllable. "_You_ are just running from a challenge like a common coward. Now, I once knew a man who wasn't a coward, out of all the pathetic sheep called human beings in this sorry world, and y'know why? Because he faced the impossible every day, because he had to and because he _wanted_ to. And if he ever decides to stop asking for a hand to hold every time the bully steals his ice cream, he _can_ be that man again."

Bruce made to retort, but Joker cut him off. "When you've given it your all, and you prove to me that there's nothing else you could have done, and Gotham _still_ ends up in ashes – _THEN_ you have my permission to die."

He lowered the handgun. For a moment Bruce was just staring at him. Then he dropped his eyes again. Taking in the truth whether or not he wanted to accept it.

"You don't…" he muttered, before trailing off. Whichever part of the floor he was staring at, his eyes were in a far more distant place. "…you don't know him…"

Joker conceded that fact. "But I know _you_."

Bruce closed his eyes. Such an action would have broken him to pieces for sure ten minutes ago, when he'd walked in here. But there was finally a faint color back to his skin. His face seemed slightly fuller. Still, he looked so lost.

Joker threw the handgun carelessly across the mattress, before taking a seat beside Bruce. His arms guided Bruce to his shoulder before he gave much thought to the gesture. He didn't take it back, though.

"You can't hide from this storm, Bruce," he whispered into the man's ear. "And you can't outlast it this way. It's going to tear you apart. You can't beat this." Bruce took a deep breath at his shoulder.

Joker leaned in closer, right next to his ear. "But Batman can."

He kept Bruce at his shoulder for a while, allowing him the familiar comfort while he grappled with the truth. Killing him really would be the more merciful deed in the end. But the Joker had never been one for mercy.

He found himself moving to accommodate Bruce's weight on top of him, as he descended them both to their usual positions in this bed. Bruce lay on Joker's chest again, entwined in his arms. This time, he actively held onto the Joker in return. His eyes were open, though Joker could barely see them.

After a few minutes, Joker snapped his eyes into focus. It was snowing outside again, softly for the moment. He watched the flakes in silence above Bruce's head.

"Batman has to come back, Bruce," he murmured.

They breathed deeply in this statement. For the first time in this position, Bruce broke the silence.

"…what if he doesn't exist anymore?"

Joker felt something in his chest clamp shut for a beat too long. It squeezed painfully. "If he doesn't…" he finally said when he had his breath. He took a moment to consider it before he replied. "…then neither do I."

xxx

That night vanished, replaced by many more, and soon another day was in progress. Joker watched the growing progress of the rioters on the streets below. He gripped his handgun in one hand, and a fistful of homemade grenades in the other.

He considered joining the incoming chaos beneath him. He thought about masquerading as an average citizen, just to get a piece of the action.

He wondered what the day had in store for him, and for Batman.

He wondered if he and Batman had ever existed at all.


End file.
